


Do the Math

by justanothersong



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Humor, Mild Angst, Pining, Reader has a potty mouth, Reader-Insert, Technobabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 16:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9191156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: You gaped after him. “Did that really just happen?” you asked incredulously.Bruce snorted, and not kindly. “Yeah that really just happened,” he grumbled, digging into his cereal without another word.





	

Numbers. Such a pain in the ass.

Working with tangible things -- or, at least, holographic representations of tangible things -- was so much easier. You could lift and swap and tweak just about anything you wanted, and the amazing Stark design software that your university employed would tell you quickly whether the project would hold -- or, in some cases, topple over, combust, or explode.

It was such a nice shortcut.

But, of course, your professors demanded to see the raw math. And really, fuck math. It wasn’t as though you couldn’t do it -- you’d done so well in your advanced calculus classes that you’d been exempt from finals -- but it was so damn tedious. It sucked all of the joy out of being an advanced theoretical engineering student.

Not that theoretical engineering was even a real thing -- you just liked the name. Your double major in theoretical physics and mechanical engineering just ached for a compound title, and so you’d given it one.

But back to the math.

 

You knew that your design for a series of small interconnected water wheels would work. The software proved it -- the system could provide enough clean energy to power a small village, and in greater numbers it could create an even larger output of energy.

It was just the matter of getting it all out on paper. One failure of the Stark software was the educator safeguards that disallowed students from accessing the logged calculations based on their holographic diagramming. 

Damn software. Damn math.

You huffed and glared at the notebook you carried, scribbling out another line of the equation that wasn’t coming out right. You were waiting for your third cup of coffee for the afternoon and couldn’t put down your calculations even long enough to order, mumbling your request for an iced red eye while you scribbled and frowned. 

“You’re dropping the decimal too early,” a voice spoke up from behind you.

You rolled your eyes. That was the worst thing about working in coffee shops -- every man without spying distance would try and tell you how to do your work. You were just about to turn and inform your latest mathematical voyeur just where he could stow his unwanted advice when you realized, to your horror, that he was right.

“It’s a great design, though,” he continued. “I think you might get more out of it if you swapped in a Pelton wheel, though.”

You gaped at your calculations, because he was right on both counts, and goddamn if it didn’t irritate the hell out of you. You turned to tell him as much but found yourself face to face with deep brown eyes, wavy salt and pepper hair combed back neatly to dissuade any curls from forming, and a small, pleasant smile.

Holy shit, that’s a hottie, you thought.

“Holy shit,” you said aloud. “You just solved my problem.”

His humble smile grew and his cheeks pinked up with pleasure. “Glad I could help,” he told you, and then gestured beyond your shoulder. “I think your drink is ready.”

 

The barista behind you was holding a large plastic tumbler aloft. “Iced Red Eye?” she called in a very tired, very bored tone.

You totally understood her pain: you recognized her from one of your classes. You hadn’t had enough in grants to cover your living expenses last semester, and had to take late night shifts waitressing at a diner not far off campus. Combined with a full course-load, it had been hell. Thankfully, you had gotten a last minute grant from the Stark Foundation this semester, which let you dedicate all of your free time to your work and still afford overpriced coffee.

“Thanks MJ,” you told her with a commiserating smile. She gave you a tired grin in return and nodded her head, before moving on to give your mathematical savior a hot linden tea, whatever the hell that was.

He smiled at the over-caffeinated drink in your hand. “I have a friend who downs those like water,” he told you.

You snorted. “Is he a human calculator like you?” you asked.

The man laughed, deep and low with just a hint of a rasp. “Something like that,” he agreed, and then nodded towards the far corner of the bustling coffee shop, where a coat was slung over a wrought iron chair and a laptop was open on the accompanying table for two. “I have a table already, if you’d like to join me?”

What the hell, you thought to yourself. If nothing else, he could probably give you some study tips. Since your brain-to-mouth filter had long since cracked and broken, you shrugged and said, “Sure, what the hell,” earning yourself another one of his low laughs.

You found you kind of liked them.

You joined him at his table and chatted back and forth for about ten minutes before he paused, smiling, and mentioned that he should probably introduce himself. He’d barely formed the syllable of his first name before your eyes widened and you slapped a hand to your forehead.

“I am a fucking moron!” you exclaimed, shaking your head. “You’re Bruce-fucking-Banner!”

He glanced around, clearly startled at how loudly you had exclaimed, but the constant chatter of baristas and customers had drowned you out well enough to avoid any notice. He seemed to cringe for a moment, as though expecting you to panic or make a scene.

“Oh my god, Dr. Banner, I am so sorry,” you rambled, face flushing red at your own foolishness. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you, my thesis advisor has a photo of you in her office, for god’s sake! I mean, holy shit, this is an honor and I…I…”

You paused, and frowned down at your notebook. “Huh,” you said. “I wonder if I can even turn this in now. Getting math tips from a living legend in the field is probably frowned upon in academic circles.”

Bruce gave another laugh, face gone pink again at your flattering words. “Let’s keep it our secret then,” he responded, and you grinned.

 

Much to your surprise, you and Bruce got on like a house on fire. He had a very subtle sense of humor that always managed to tickle your funny bone, and in turn, Bruce seemed to get a kick out of your somewhat frazzled and always foul-mouthed nature. You began meeting for coffee regularly, and he even met with your thesis advisor when she refused to believe you as you tried to explain your new approach.

Dr. Moross came closed to fainting when Dr. Banner walked through her office door.

It was hilarious.

One more perk of being the brand new bestie of Bruce Banner was that he invited you into his home, Stark Tower, to make use of his lab and just spend time as the days grew colder and the coffee shop too crowded and noisy for you to think.

Plus, the coffee was better. Some gourmet stuff, Bruce had explained, because Tony took his caffeine deadly seriously.

And then there was that too -- Tony mother-effin’ Stark.

You never made any secret to Bruce of the fact that you had a major yen for his other best buddy. It was kind of hard not too -- when you were being introduced to the superhero group en masse and had just shaken Tony’s hand and been on the receiving end of a flirty little wink, Clint Barton had leaned over and whispered a teasing, “Careful there kid, you’re about to start drooling.”

The jackass.

Anyway, it wasn’t as though you followed him around like a lost puppy dog or anything. When you were at the tower, you were with Bruce: in the lab working, in the communal kitchen enjoying Tony’s expensive coffee, and sometimes just in the lounge watching terrible old sci-fi movies.

It turned out that Bruce could have hosted Mystery Science Theater 3000 with total ease. He had you cackling on the couch more often than not, with silly jokes and terrible puns, or correcting the bad science in an amused tone.

Sometimes, though, things became a little more morose than you’d have thought. Once in particular, while watching an old Frankenstein film, you could see the sadness in his eyes. He even winced at every loud bang of the battering ram on the old castle door, as the angry villagers advanced in their pursuit to find the creature and put it to death.

On instinct, you reached out and put your hand over his. It was late and you’d left the lights off as your film marathon progressed, all of the natural light having faded from the room. The stillness of it, just the two of you seated close together on the couch, a blanket shared between you, seemed to call for quiet.

“You’re not a monster, Bruce,” you told him in a whisper.

He gave you a rueful smile, dark eyes shining in the flickering light of the screen. “You’ve never met the Other Guy,” he told you sadly. “You’d change your mind if you did.”

You shook your head and grinned. “You won’t be rid of me that easily, buddy,” you declared, and placed a loud smacking kiss on his mildly stubbled cheek.

He was smiling when you pulled away.

 

Soon enough, you were spending more time in the tower than you were at home, and no one seemed to mind. You made it a point not to ogle Tony, even if he was omnipresent when you were in the labs with Bruce. It seemed you couldn’t lift a finger on your project without getting input in stereo from the both of them, each seemingly pleased to be working on something that didn’t involve global defense for a change. You didn’t mind it at all, though the proximity could be a little trying.

It’s not as though anyone could blame you. Tony Stark had been gracing magazine covers since you were in grade school, always lauded for his genius, his philanthropic efforts, and, of course, his handsome features. There was no denying that Tony Stark was one attractive bastard, and with a flirty and approachable personality, it was a little hard not to get drawn in.

Just sue me, you often thought. The guy is a hottie, and I have eyes. Nothin’ wrong with that.

So maybe you had a couple of his magazine covers pinned on your wall as a teenager. And maybe when it dawned on you that spending so much time with Bruce would put you in your locker pin-up boy’s path, you hyperventilated a little.

You were only human, after all.

 

You were still knocked for six the day Tony sauntered over to where you sat at the breakfast bar in the communal kitchen, flicking spilled Rice Krispies across the table with your thumb and forefinger to try and land them in Bruce’s hair, and announced that you were coming up to his place for a drink that night.

You blinked. Then again. Then frowned and said, “Huh?”

“Tonight,” Tony repeated. “Eight o’clock. Come on up to the penthouse, we’ll have a drink, see if we can’t… get to know each other better.” 

He gave you a smirking half smile and turned to leave, your eyes following him along the way, until he paused and turned back to you with a grin.

“Wear something special,” he advised, and more or less sauntered out the door.

You gaped after him. “Did that really just happen?” you asked incredulously.

Bruce snorted, and not kindly. “Yeah that really just happened,” he grumbled, digging into his cereal without another word.

 

You hemmed and hawed over it for the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon before Bruce finally shooed you away in irritation, telling you to go and “get all dolled up or whatever you do” for your Big Date™ with Tony.

Sputtering, you insisted it wasn’t a real date, but the rosy pink flush to your cheeks gave you away and Bruce rolled his eyes in the first unkind gesture you’d ever received from him. It might have hit you a little harder, if you weren’t so keyed up about Tony.  
So you did as instructed, went home and showered and obsessed over your hair and makeup for a good couple of hours, doing test runs and washing your face in deciding that it wasn’t the right look. The thought occurred to you that Tony had never seen you in makeup before -- no one in the tower had. Spending time with Bruce was easy and comfortable, and you’d never been one to flounce out the door in a full face of war paint unless the situation absolutely called for it. Most of the time spent there saw you in simple jeans and t-shirts, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail or a haphazard bun.

The thought that Tony even wanted to see kicking it up a notch or two was sort of astounding.

 

Once you settled on how you’d spackle your face and tease your hair for the evening, you went to get The Dress out of your closet.

Only your closest friends knew about The Dress; Bruce had heard of it, but he’d never seen it. It had been a one in a million shot to even find it, an expensive designer cocktail dress, cut and sized perfectly for your figure, on the deep discount rack at an even deeper discount chain, all because some stitching had come unraveled along the zipper. 

It took you twelve seconds to whip out your debit card and buy it, and about ten minutes to hand-sew the zipper back in place, and suddenly you had a perfect designer dress that you should never have been able to afford, that made your rack look amazing and your ass even better. It was a dream come true.

You’d worn it all of twice in the three years you’d owned it.

You turned heads the entire way back to the tower; even your cab driver had leered a little, much to your chagrin, but you tried your best to put it out of your mind.You tapped your foot and counted the floors as they zipped by in the elevator up to the penthouse; you felt strange, not stopping at the common floors, or the levels that held Bruce’s quarters or labs.

Instead of the butterflies you expected, your stomach felt rumbly and queasy. It was strange.

 

Tony was waiting for you as the elevator doors opened. He looked amazing, all perfectly debonair in a fitted suit, dark hair artfully arranged and dark eyes bright with mischief. He gave you a drink that made you cough and wheeze, much stronger than you’d expected and stronger than you were used to, at least since you’d give up Jell-O shots made with Everclear out of fear for your liver.

Tony laughed and patted your back, his hand settling just above your ass once your coughing fit was finished and before you knew it, he was sweeping you into his arms and planting a kiss on you that should have made your toes curl.

But it was wrong, all so wrong.

The brush of his goatee against your face, too manicured and soft; for some reason you had expected stubble: not much, just a few hours’ worth of shadow. When you reached up to tangle your hands in your hair, it was too straight and too slick with some product meant to keep it in place, when your fingers were itching for soft, loose waves.

Your eyes flew open and though the gaze staring back at you was dark, it was exactly the wrong shade of brown and too teasing and lively, when you felt a sudden longing for calm and kindness.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” you spat out, one hand covering your mouth as you realize.

Tony grinned. “Oh-ho, now she gets it!” he said cheerfully.

You turned away and started pacing, hands on your hips, shaking your head as you mean. “Holy shit,” you muttered. “I mean, seriously, holy shit. How could I not…?”

Tony snorted, slipping behind the bar to pour himself a drink. If it was anything like the one he’d given you, you thought, he’d be breathing fire in no time.

“You’re geniuses, but you’re nearsighted as hell sometimes,” Tony reasoned, slugging back his drink. When you frowned, he shrugged. “Hey, I call’em like I see’em, and believe me, I resemble that remark from time to time myself. Now scoot.”

He dismissed you with a wave of his hand. 

Still shaking your head, you turned and hurried towards the elevator.

“He’ll be brooding in his lab!!” Tony called, far too cheerfully. “Like he always is when you’re not here!”

 

Bruce was frowning at a page full of notes, indeed brooding as Tony had said he would be. He was lost in his thoughts when you first approached, the world fallen away a little as it always tended to do when he was alone.

The spiked heels you wore clacked noisily against the tile floor of the lab, the pace of the sound increasing with the pace of your feet as you hurried towards him. Now that you knew -- now that you had added it all up, piece by piece, in your perhaps less than perceptive mind -- you couldn’t wait to get near him.

His frown grew when his ears picked up on the sound and he turned, confused, not expecting to see you barreling at him in a flurry of fancy dresses, teased tresses, and overpriced makeup.

His eyes widened as you pounced on him, settling yourself on his lap and kissing him so soundly that you thought you might suffocate and die from lack of air, and you were perfectly pleased as punch to go out that way.

Bruce’s lips were soft, so soft as they gasped open in surprise and then began moving against yours in earnest. Warm hands slid up your thighs, slipping just beneath the hem of your dress and squeezing gentle enough to make you moan. You pushed your fingers through his hair, smiling against his lips to feel the soft waves you had been longing for and the scrape of his stubble along your jaw as he moved, just for a moment, to nibbled beneath your ear. 

His surprise had given way to want and he moved back to your mouth, taking his time to suck and nibble at your lips before giving you a moment to breathe. You grinned, panting, pressing your forehead against his and still running your fingers his hair, loving the way the soft strands felt beneath your fingertips.

“What…” Bruce asked, breathing hard. He paused and licked his lips, then tried again. “What…?”

“Apparently we smarty-pantses can be kind of myopic,” you told him with a laugh. “Take a shove in the right direction to see what’s right in front of us.”

“You sure?” Bruce asked, still almost breathless; you suspected it was more than just a lack of air making his chest heave. “I’m… you know what I am.”

“You are a genius,” you responded, shaking your head. “A kind, sweet, funny, dead sexy genius, Dr. Banner, and that is all that matters to me. Except for one other thing.”

“What’s that?” Bruce asked, frowning.

You grinned. “You’re _mine_.”


End file.
